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It is dark beyond the glittering lights of Imladris, and his eyes are slow to adjust. He hears things in the woods, dark as pitch or coal, sounds of birds and squirrels and Elves, for the most part in the distance but as he moves blindly forward he realises that one is quite near. He schools his features, making an effort to appear nonchalant, to give his movements purpose. Elven sight is far keener in the dark, and his pride makes him walk with a firm resolution, though in truth it feels as if a wall is growing closer with ever step, as if he is about to walk into it. A few steps more and his boot hooks under a branch, his confident stride pitching him forwards onto the earth, only just caught by his hands. There is a high, clear laugh, and then a hand descends in front of his face, dark-clad knees bending beyond it to crouch in front of the young Ranger.
"A wise man does not run quickly into dark places, Estel," the strange Elf murmurs. His voice is low and throaty, at odds with his laugh. Estel looks up, and he can just make out the Elf's shape, though it is too dark to see his face.
"I have been called brave, and sometimes foolhardy, but rarely wise," he replies quietly, taking the strong slender hand and untangling his legs from the tree root, letting the Elf help him to his feet. "I cannot see you clearly, but nor do I recognise your voice. You are not one of Elrond's kin."
"No," the Elf replies, and there is a smile in his voice. "I am called Glorfindel. I have been away, fighting with Elrond's sons."
"I will go with them," Estel says, "When next they leave."
"Then we will fight alongside each other," Glorfindel says, and along with amusement Estel hears something of an accent in his Sindarin. It is a way of speaking that he has not heard even among the Noldor in Rivendell, nor among visiting Galadhrim. "Have you skill with a bow, Adan?"
"I have training," Estel replies mildly. "I have not yet been tested in battle."
"No," Glorfindel agrees. Estel's eyes are beginning to adjust, and though he cannot clearly discern colour, he sees that the Elf is fair-haired and tall, broad-shouldered but still slender.
"Where were you born?" Estel asks softly, and Glorfindel smiles.
"I lived for a time in Nevrast."
Estel's eyes grow wide, for he has studied much in Elrond's libraries, and he does not even notice the Elf's imprecise answer. "Nevrast," he whispers. "But you… so few on Middle-Earth remain of that time."
"Yes," Glorfindel replies, and Estel thinks he sees some hesitation in the ancient Elf's eyes.
"You are not Sindar," Estel observes. "Noldor, then, but you are fair-haired…"
"I have both Noldorin and Vanyarin blood," Glorfindel explains.
Estel's eyes narrow. "Nevrast," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Nevrast was Turgon's home, and then his people went to Gondolin, where…" He frowns. "You cannot be that ancient chief, of the House of the Golden Flower. His name was Glorfindel too, I remember, but… he was slain in the First Age; he fought a Balrog to give his kin a chance to escape…"
Glorfindel smiles. "So many questions, little one. But I see you are learned in our history, despite your age. You do credit to your ancestors."
"You cannot be," Estel whispers, the answer already forming in his mind. This is no ordinary Elf, he can tell even in the darkness.
"Perhaps I cannot," Glorfindel replies, touching his shoulder before he disappears into the darkness.
On the sixth night away from Elrond's refuge, Estel stumbles upon two Elves – one is Lord Elrond's son, Elrohir, his own friend – and the other is a young male Elf. Despite their keen senses of sight and hearing, they do not notice him – or if they do, they do not say anything. They are quite clearly wrapped up in one another, and he watches only for a moment as they move, both harsh and beautiful, their cries muffled by soft clothing.
Estel is not entirely naïve. He knows of the pleasures of the flesh, but there are no mortal women in Imladris, and what he knows of love he learned from the great lays, not least the Lay of Leithian. His curiosity lurks on the surface, and perhaps he even desires to know an Elf intimately, but he would never approach an Elvish woman for such a purpose. He is only a boy among great nobility. He is learning how not to be noticed, and that art suits him well.
He is only a few yards from the scene when he comes upon Glorfindel, resting against a tree. He wears a dark cloak, tunic, and leggings, with a simple braided belt about his waist. Estel cannot discern the colours, and he is reminded of that first night, though now he knows the brilliant golden colour of Glorfindel's hair and skin. He has pored over the history books since that meeting, and he cannot shake the thought that this is Glorfindel of Gondolin, somehow returned from the Halls of Mandos.
"You saw something you did not intend to see," Glorfindel says softly, almost a whisper. Estel knows he cannot hide the flush of his skin or the faint tremor in his limbs from the Elf. "Do not worry, young Dunédan. It is quite normal among those who travel in times of war. We seek what comfort we can."
If Estel notices a hint of cynicism in Glorfindel's tone, it is gone in the next moment and he cannot be sure whether it was there at all.
"Will you teach me?" he asks boldly. Glorfindel smiles and touches his cheek. He leans in, and Estel's chin tilts up just slightly, barely discernible, before Glorfindel's lips veer right and almost caress his jaw on the way to his ear.
"You are young yet," Glorfindel whispers, and the touch is gone, leaving in its stead a hollow space in Estel's chest.
They meet the first group of orcs some ten days from Imladris. The Elves teach him to track the fell beasts, how to pick up on little details and changes in the atmosphere that alert the party to their presence. There are perhaps twenty of them, and it is an easy slaughter. Estel kills one with his bow, and slices the head of another clean from its body. A surge of adrenaline pools in his veins, and when it is over he is breathing heavily, a little dizzy.
"It will not always be so easy," Glorfindel says in his gentle, lilting tones as they walk north.
"No," Estel agrees, for he would not expect it to be so. "It is so black and white, though. I feel no remorse."
Glorfindel is silent, and Estel slowly turns his eyes to the side, seeing the spectre of something restless and old in Glorfindel's eyes. "It will not always be so easy," he repeats, and runs ahead to join his kin.
Over time, Estel grows used to hunting wolves and orcs, and he begins to learn the lay of the land as well, soaking in what information the Elves can give him like a sponge. Their numbers shift, and for a time they hunt with other Rangers of the North – his own people, a few of them his cousins. Yet he still feels more at home amongst the Elves, and finds himself speaking Sindarin, a tongue that is more familiar to him than the harsh syllables of Westron.
Later, the Rangers leave them for a time, and they camp in a relatively safe place, for a few nights' rest. He finds himself in a tent with Glorfindel and is surprised, for whether or not his theory is correct, Glorfindel is still a great Elf-lord.
"You had a birthday recently, Estel. I failed to congratulate you."
Estel frowns, watching as Glorfindel ties the tent-flap shut and sheds his long cloak, letting it fall in a puddle on the ground. "It is no consequence. It is only a day, and I have only eighteen years. Scarcely a minute in your reckoning."
"No," Glorfindel agrees. "But yet you have grown to maturity more quickly than your kin. I see something noble in you, Estel. It needs only honing yet."
Estel frowns. He dreams now of great silver banners, unfurling in the wind, and armies of men. It confuses him, that he sees himself as their leader, at the head of a column, but he chalks it up to little boys' fantasies. Glorfindel's eyes cut deep, and he wonders how much the proud Elf knows.
"You asked me once, if I would teach you something."
"I have asked you to teach me many things," Estel says softly, but he knows of which Glorfindel speaks. The Elf smiles and sits on a blanket, eyeing the Man thoughtfully.
"You are still young, but I may not long have this chance. I would like to impart to you what knowledge I can."
"Oh," Estel says quietly. "I would desire it."
The Elf smiles and holds out his hand. "It is written on your face, nethen."
Estel colours, but he takes the hand that is offered and lowers himself to the blanket. Glorfindel's hands rise to his face in a familiar gesture, the thumbs brushing his cheeks, and his eyes fall shut, memorizing the feel of hands on his skin. "Vanya," Glorfindel whispers, the words falling from his lips all the more beautiful for their strangeness. "Nessa, lissë. Cuina," he breathes against Estel's lips, and Estel falls forward as if possessed by the low rolling thunder of Glorfindel's voice, whimpering as he presses their lips together in desperation. Strong hands drop to his arms, catching him, holding him at a precarious angle as they touch only lips and knees.
"Merinyel," Estel whispers, in some attempt to show respect to the noble Elf, though his knowledge of Quenya comes only in snippets of songs. It does not seem to matter, for Glorfindel surges forward, laying Estel back, and his hands slide down to Estel's chest, resting against it and feeling the beating of his heart.
"Haryuvalyen."
Estel inhales quickly, and Glorfindel bends to steal the breath, his hands slipping the fastening of Estel's Elven cloak free. He is clad as one of them, in the garb of Imladris, and Glorfindel's hands effortlessly find the hem of his tunic, lifting it up and over his head as Estel's arms stretch to aid him. "So fragile," Glorfindel whispers, his hands roaming the young man's chest, lips caressing the skin, his voice distant as if caught in a memory. Estel feels he should object, but the observation is not uttered as a slight on his abilities – all men are fragile, he knows, to the Eldar, for their bodies are doomed to die.
Glorfindel's hands move lower, caressing his hips, and Estel's eyes fall shut again, a gasp escaping his lips as he clasps one wrist with the opposite hand, his muscles tightening and his core pushing upward to meet the Elf's mouth. Glorfindel smiles and presses soft lips to his navel, a warm tongue darting playfully inward, pushing gently. Estel looks down and sees cornsilk strands of hair falling freely around his thighs; he pushes up onto one arm and reaches down to touch it, to stroke the Elf's scalp. Glorfindel's eyes fall shut this time, and he relishes the moment of surrender, the slight parting of the beautiful Elf's lips and his musical sigh.
"Please," Estel murmurs, and when Glorfindel's eyes open fire meets fire.
Glorfindel's body presses against his own, the rough, raw heat of the contact making Estel's head spin. He feels the weight of the Elven warrior as his lips part Estel's, as Glorfindel's tongue strokes his and fine raiment brushes his bare chest.
"Náto," Glorfindel hisses as Estel's hands fist in his hair. He feels older, as if he has somehow come into his own with the setting of the sun. He feels not humbled by this magnificent Elf, but equal, understood. He does not have a chance to think himself foolish. Glorfindel does not let him.
"More," Estel begs, tugging at Glorfindel's clothing. He gets the tunic off, and tugs ineffectually at the leggings, earning a smile. Glorfindel takes Estel's hands in his own, squeezes them and places them on Estel's chest, then sits up, his eyes still on Estel's as he unlaces his boots.
"Your passion is rare among men," Glorfindel murmurs, sliding one strong calf out from the sturdy leather. "I hope that it will become stronger, not dim with age."
"I am only passionate because I am inspired," Estel admits candidly, dropping his hand between his legs in a moment of bravery and flexing dirt-stained fingers around the hard flesh beneath his leggings. Fire ignites in Glorfindel's eyes, and his movements are less careful, ridding himself of his clothing with an obvious haste. He tugs Estel's boots and leggings off and then re-situates himself on top of Estel's body, his legs between Estel's, lengths of hard flesh pressed unmistakeably together. "Oh," Estel whispers, and Glorfindel's smile is wicked.
"Yes."
Estel moans as Glorfindel reclaims his lips and his hips rock subtly with Estel's, his hands roaming the young man's body and stilling him when his movements become too frantic.
"I will not have you hurt," Glorfindel whispers, his lips teasing the shell of Estel's ear, where the point would form if he were of Glorfindel's race. He feels the loss acutely when Glorfindel pulls away, the air cooler against his overheated skin, but the Elf returns quickly, a small glass bottle with a cork stopper in his hand. "We use this oil," Glorfindel explains, holding it for Estel to see, "to help ease the way. It is not necessary," he adds, "with females. Their bodies are inclined naturally for the activity, but we…"
"I do not want to talk about females," Estel growls, sensing Glorfindel's resignation at the friendly advice. Females are in truth the furthest thing from his mind right now, as he lies underneath the very embodiment of male power and grace, intelligence and kindness. Perhaps Glorfindel's advice will come in handy one day, but for tonight, he does not care. "Prepare me as you must," he says, sitting up and cupping his hand around the back of Glorfindel's head, kissing him almost savagely and pulling him down again. It could be too much, but Glorfindel reacts as Estel knew he would, groaning low in his throat and pinning Estel down with his hands, assaulting his mouth and then his neck and chest, moving down his body as he uncorks the bottle and pours some oil into the cupped palm of one hand.
"Pay attention, little one," Glorfindel purrs, looking up with eyes grown both bright and dark. There are times when Glorfindel is not of this world, when the ethereal glow of Mandos shines around him, but this is not a trick, nor something borne of Valinor. This is Glorfindel, and he is wholly present, connected to this world and to the moment. Estel isn't sure how he knows, but instinctively, he can tell. Glorfindel dips a finger in the pool of oil and he presses it to the pucker between Estel's legs. Estel's arms begin to shake as he holds himself up, but he does not let himself collapse, so great is his desire to watch Glorfindel as this moment transpires.
"I would not have you stop," Estel murmurs, and Glorfindel smiles, pushing more insistently with his fingertip. It enters, and Estel clenches down, though he doesn't want to. He frowns, and Glorfindel laughs, kissing the inside of his thigh.
"It is a natural thing, lissë. Relax. I will teach your body to know me."
Estel sighs, letting his head fall back, and he spreads his legs further apart, breathing deeply. Little by little, Glorfindel inches the finger in, and though it feels so deep there is more, more…
"Oh!" Estel exclaims breathily when Glorfindel's finger bends, and a sudden pleasure rises somewhere adjacent to his cock.
When he looks up, Glorfindel is smiling, and he rubs the spot again, gently, letting Estel get used to the sensation. "One day it may be you," he murmurs, kissing Estel's hip. "Teaching some young warrior what to do when you are away from your wives. You should become very familiar with this spot."
Estel frowns, for he doesn't want to think of wives or other men, but he nods nonetheless and Glorfindel seems to understand, not continuing the line of thought. Instead he proceeds with the internal massage, and then thrusts his finger gently, in and out, slow then fast.
"Oh, Ilúvatar," Estel moans, his head tipping back. "Please."
Glorfindel smiles but his eyes are piercing as he slides another finger in, stretching out the passage. Estel squirms and clenches his fingers into fists, caught between panic and pleasure. "Glorfindel… I…"
"Tell me what you need," Glorfindel purrs, and Estel's eyes fall shut, his body shivering uncontrollably.
"Kiss me," he whispers, and Glorfindel moves forward faster than a mortal man, his lips upon Estel's before Estel has closed his mouth. He moans and clings to Glorfindel's shoulders, rocking his hips now as Glorfindel's fingers penetrate him. "Oh, it… it is good," he gasps, opening his eyes.
"It is," Glorfindel agrees, smiling sweetly.
"No. You," Estel moans. "Oh, I do not deserve you."
"Shh," Glorfindel chides. "You are beautiful. This is an honour."
"Then please," Estel begs after a moment's pause, his legs falling further open. "Honour me."
It is only after a long minute and another finger, keeping Estel strung out on the knife's edge of want, that Glorfindel finally relents, clutching himself in one hand and holding Estel's thigh with the other. He meets Estel's eyes before he begins the slow, steady push, and Estel lets out an echoing groan, holding his eyes open for as long as he can bear it.
"Ahh," he gasps as Glorfindel's hips jerk slightly in response to an involuntary clench. His hands come up to fist in the Elf's silken hair, and he moans at how light it is, sliding over his battle-roughened fingers. Reaching again, he gets a steadier grip on the back of Glorfindel's head and brings them together for a kiss just as Glorfindel's hips meet his thighs. "Ilúvatar," he moans into Glorfindel's mouth, pulling at coral-pink lips with his teeth and delighting in Glorfindel's throaty growl.
"Lissë," he rasps, tinged with something that is not quite anger but close to it, a power behind his voice that turns Estel into nothing but want, pressing his lower back into the ground so that he can rock his hips back and up, impaling himself.
"Oh!"
"Yes," Glorfindel groans, taking his mouth again and again as his fingers trace Estel's sides, support his back, stroke his face. Estel begins to soar, to leave earthly reckoning as his eyes glaze over and he can remember nothing but Glorfindel, nothing but the weight of someone else in his body and the sweet slick piercing want that consumes him.
"Please, please…" Estel whispers, not knowing what he is asking for but allowing himself this vulnerability in front of the Elf by whom he is so humbled.
Glorfindel does not blink, but moves faster, his thrusts jerkier and less contained, his lips smearing against Estel's as his hand closes around Estel's cock, holding it firmly but not so firm that his thrusts cannot push it back and forth, a smooth slide that makes Estel cry out and suddenly jerk in climax, his mouth and hands reaching for Glorfindel.
"Yes," the Elf whispers, kissing and cradling him. "Yes, that is it. That is beautiful. So strong and lovely," he murmurs in Estel's ear, and Estel is too tired to protest. He merely watches, dazed, as Glorfindel thrusts into him, his hair swinging freely and his face coated with a thin sheen that makes him glow. Or perhaps it is something else, that ethereal essence that surrounds Glorfindel and makes itself known sometimes, in battle or in conversation, or when Glorfindel first enters a room. Estel cannot name it, but it is here now, and for the first time he watches openly as Glorfindel exposes all that he is, all of himself, crying out Estel's name and showing himself at once the proud warrior and the skilled lover, as well as the compassionate, intelligent Elf that Estel has come to know.
They rest in silence, and the sounds of the night bring Estel no unease. His head cradled against a golden chest, elegant hands stroking his hair, he is at peace.
Estel stands near the edge of a wide, high lawn, a league from the Last Homely House. The sun is setting, pinks and golds through the thick web of trees, a bare mist of dew sparkling on their leaves and painting the valley golden and copper. He is lost in thought, but he hears the soft footsteps on the grass and feels a presence at his back, recognising it without turning.
"You knew," Estel murmurs, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. There is no accusation in his tone, but it is all beginning to overwhelm him. Elrond's tale, the mysterious Elf maiden who has consumed his heart in only a day, and now this complication. "That my name is Aragorn. That I am Elendil's heir."
"I knew," Glorfindel agrees quietly. He does not move, and Estel continues, twisting the intricate ring he wears now on his finger.
"I thought the line was long broken. I have wondered, of course. How my mother knew to bring me here. Why Elrond accepted a human child and his mother in his house, why she…" He breaks off, breathing in slowly and then continuing. "Of course, a woman and a baby cannot survive well alone, but she was with a company, that I knew. I never could have guessed any of this, and now… I cannot know what to think."
"You will learn," Glorfindel replies. "You will be tested many times. Your line is long-lived. Perhaps this will all come to mean nothing," he suggests, but the falsehood lies on his lips. He and Estel both know, instinctually, that it will mean something. The only question is what.
"I have dreams," he whispers, grasping the pale stone railing and looking down into the golden valley below. "I do not understand them, but perhaps I am beginning to."
Glorfindel does not reply, but comes to his side, his hand an inch from Estel's.
"They frighten me," Estel continues. "I am Isildur's heir."
"He has told you everything, then."
Estel nods, his eyes troubled as the shadows begin to lengthen around them.
"I do not believe that you will fall to his fate," Glorfindel says simply, and they stand in silence for a long while, until finally all is dark under a new moon. Estel is struck by a memory, and he turns to Glorfindel just as the Elf's eyes fall to him. In the darkness, Glorfindel's hand comes under his chin to caress his face, and he is graced by only a gentle meeting of lips before Glorfindel slinks away into the shadows.
For a time, he stays in Imladris, but he knows it cannot be forever. Two worlds clash for him in the Elves' haven, and he has many trials to face before he might again find such simplicity as he once knew.
Abroad, he travels often alone, and sometimes with the wizard Mithrandir. When he is in the North, he fights sometimes with the Rangers, but they do not share the ways of the Elves in battle and in truth he would not want it. He knows himself peculiar, for the way of comfort in wartime is not particular, and while men may find the love of friends in difficult times, there is something different in the love between man and lady. He knows this, and his love for the Lady Arwen will never diminish, but at the same time he often thinks of Glorfindel, though their paths do not cross, and the thought gives him comfort.
In his fiftieth year, after the few sweet months in Lórien and once Arwen's pledge is made, he returns to Imladris and is confronted by Elrond's words. He knows he will soon have to leave, to continue on the path that is his destiny, but he lingers one cycle of the moon, indulging in his mother's comfort and resting his weary body for a time.
It is a few days before he leaves that he sees Glorfindel, in a wood not far from the spot where he first saw Arwen.
"Dúnedan," Glorfindel greets him with a pleasant smile, his eyes laughing.
Aragorn's face breaks into a grin, and his legs into a run, his feet snapping the twigs underneath him. He bounds into Glorfindel's arms like a boy, and the Elf murmurs "Estel" in his ear, though he is older now and he knows not so fair of face. It is only they, the two Elves who hold his heart in the balance, that call him by that name, and it gives him strength.
"Glorfindel," Aragorn murmurs, pulling back slowly and letting his smile melt into something more serious. "Mae govannen."
"Beautiful Estel," Glorfindel whispers, and his familiar tone makes Aragorn shiver.
"I have changed, you see," Aragorn replies softly. Glorfindel smiles and reaches up, brushing Aragorn's weathered cheek with his thumb.
"And yet only in ways of consequence to mortal men. You have grown into the man I knew you would."
Aragorn nods, leaning closer. "I will leave in three days' time."
"You were in Lórien," Glorfindel says gently.
Aragorn nods again. "It will be many winters before I am deserving of Arwen."
"In Elrond's eyes," Glorfindel agrees. "But you know it. You will not fail."
"You place such hope in me. Do you see something I do not?"
"You see it, when your eyes are open," Glorfindel counters, gently cupping the back of his neck and whispering, teasingly. "Estel."
"I have travelled alone for so many years," Aragorn murmurs. "It should be strange to feel another's touch, and yet, it is not, when it is yours."
Glorfindel's features are serious, but he presses his lips softly to Aragorn's forehead, and his body is warm. "You have rested, and yet it is not enough. It may never be, 'ere these times are over."
"No," Aragorn agrees.
"Come to my chambers," Glorfindel whispers. "There is a back passage."
"Oh," Aragorn murmurs. "Yes."
They do not see each other again until they meet on that perilous journey west of the Ford, and Aragorn does not disguise his joy at seeing an old friend in front of the hobbits, as they are a race that certainly understands the value of friendship. Later, when they are safe for a time and he has spoken with Arwen and taken counsel with Elrond, he comes to Glorfindel's chambers for the comfort he needs.
"Do you think he will survive it?" Aragorn asks as they lie in Glorfindel's bed, taking comfort in one another's arms. It is but a pause in a growing battle, and so they do not question the need, for it is obviously strong in Aragorn.
"Hobbits are strange creatures. I do not fully understand them, but Elrond's power to heal is strong."
"It was a Morgul-blade. Whatever may be my name, I find it difficult to hope."
"And you," Glorfindel says, stroking Aragorn's hair from his freshly washed face. "Though it does not surprise me, it is still an impressive feat to take on five of the Nine alone."
"I have a duty," Aragorn replies simply, and Glorfindel nods. He too is a soldier.
"Whatever the path of the Ring now, you will follow it," Glorfindel predicts. "For a time, at least."
"And if it stays here, in Imladris?"
"I do not think Elrond will not allow it."
"Where then will it go?"
"I am not certain. To hide, perhaps, but I am not certain where. In the Sea? But my heart tells me this is wrong."
"I trust to what your heart tells you," Aragorn says quietly. "I believe I know why you are here."
"Oh?" Glorfindel replies, idly braiding a strand of Aragorn's hair as if he were an Elf warrior.
"You were the Glorfindel who fell at Gondolin. I have always known that, though my mind could not reconcile it."
Glorfindel does not speak, but his hands continue to twist in Aragorn's hair, his body relaxed.
"Your spirit must have rested in the Halls of Waiting, but you did not come back into your body to live in Aman as other Elves do, so the stories say. You were sent here. With the Istari, I believe, from what Arwen and her brothers remember of your arrival. They had not seen you before Mithrandir arrived in Imladris, and they could sense that you were a lord of old, but they knew nothing of your history…"
Glorfindel stops him with a finger on his lips, but he is smiling. "Whether or not you are correct, Dúnedan, that does not tell you why I am here, but only perhaps how."
Aragorn frowns but chooses not to pursue it, only lifting his head and pressing his lips to Glorfindel's. "Do you remember my mother?"
"Of course."
"She placed all her hope in me. I carry a heavy burden."
"But you are more than equal to it, Estel. Time will tell."
Aragorn nods and lets himself rest, though his mind will not quiet.
"So you take the shards of Narsil to Gondor," Glorfindel murmurs as he prepares to set out with Lord Elrond's sons on the scouting mission, clothing himself in the dark cloak of the Rangers.
"Or to Mordor," Aragorn corrects. In his mind, he does not see how this journey will pass, but the dreams of his boyhood are clear to him now, and he recognizes the Fields of Pelennor and the high courtyard where the White Tree stands.
"The road will be difficult, and long. Perhaps you will meet trials against which you have not been tested. But along with Arwen's love, you have my faith. The faith of friendship and brotherhood, which among Elf-kind does not waiver."
Aragorn looks up from beneath his hood and steps forward, clasping Glorfindel's hand and drawing it to his chest. "I will look for you when I return, otorno."
"If you succeed, you will not have to look hard," Glorfindel counters, bending and kissing his brow. They embrace once more, and Aragorn disappears into the night.
"You once said it was normal," he murmurs, his chest tight as he rests his hand on the rich velvet upholstery of a divan, "in times of war. And yet it is finally peacetime, and my flesh still yearns for you."
"We cannot control," Glorfindel says, his voice almost hard, guarded as it has been since he arrived in Gondor, since the wedding on Midsummer's Day, "the yearnings of our flesh."
Aragorn sighs. It has been three years since their re-uniting, and he did not expect Glorfindel to return to Minas Tirith at his call. "No," he admits, his free hand clenching into a fist and then releasing. "And my heart yearns for you as well."
He turns to meet Glorfindel's gaze, and it is open, the Elf's eyes holding nothing back. He swells with something he cannot name, something that he cannot conjure even in the presence of his Lady Arwen, and he doesn't know the rules anymore.
"You have taught me a great many things," Aragorn whispers, closing the space between them and lifting his hand to the centre of Glorfindel's chest. "Can you teach me this?"
Glorfindel inhales sharply, and then he catches Aragorn's hands in his own, locking them together tightly as they kiss, Aragorn's passion pouring into the embrace as he surges with something that is beyond want and need and desire, beyond all those things he has felt for Glorfindel time and again. He falls to his knees, his hands still grasping Glorfindel's tightly, and Glorfindel does not waver as the great king of Men presses dry lips to his golden fingers, to the pink notches of flesh that have known the string of many bows.
"You have my heart," he whispers. "Herunya."
Glorfindel only watches for a long moment, and then he falls to his knees, his hand slipping from Aragorn's and coming to Aragorn's forehead, brushing away a tendril of hair. "Elessar," he whispers. "You will live forever."
Aragorn frowns and kisses him softly. "If only I could."
"No," Glorfindel insists, lifting Aragorn's hand to his heart and pressing it in place through raiment of fine silk. "We were sent here for you," he murmurs. "Mithrandir to guide you, and I to love you. I did not always know it, but I know it now. You will live forever," Glorfindel promises, his eyes bright with the light of Valinor. "In hope and memory."
Aragorn sighs, and they fall together like melody and harmony. The King of Men and a Chief of Ancient Days cannot re-write the Music. But they can, and they will, add a beautiful refrain.